


Unhappy the Speaking Man

by theskywasblue



Category: The Losers - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:16:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen talks a lot even on a good day, and this isn't a good day.  He's not sure yet if there will ever be good days again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unhappy the Speaking Man

“Did you know that if the sun exploded right now, it would be eight minutes before we knew about it?”

The sun’s _not_ exploding right now though – at least Jensen thinks it’s not – instead, it’s setting, and outside the hotel room's grimy window, the city looks like it's on fire, like it's burning to the ground around them; the ceiling fan pushes the sticky air around until it's like being touched by a sweaty hand. It makes Jensen think of the opening of _Apocalypse Now_ \- with the choppers and explosions, The Doors playing in the background – which just makes him think of his life, really.

"Cougs," he says, listless, just tilting his head. His glasses are sweat-smeared, but if he takes them off, he won't be able to look across the room and see Cougar cleaning his gun, solemn in his thrift-store clothes and his cowboy hat. "Did you know that, man – about the sun?"

"No," Cougar responds – simple, direct; not actively encouraging Jensen to keep talking, but not discouraging him either. That's one of the reasons Jensen likes him – Cougar can roll with Jensen's endless stream-of-consciousness babble like a goddamn pro. Jensen talks a lot even on a good day, and this isn't a good day. He's not sure yet if there will ever be good days again.

Six hours ago they walked out of the Bolivian jungle and into a world that thought they were dead. It’s going to take a lot of getting used to.

"This could be the last eight minutes of your life," Jensen says, enunciating each word with ridiculous care, suddenly feeling weird and far away from his body with the truth of it. "What would you do?" 

Cougar says, “Pray. And you?”

Jensen thinks about his niece: about how he dropped literally everything – he had an MIT scholarship, for Christ’s sake – to move across the country when his sister’s deadbeat boyfriend left her; about how he got up with the baby at night so she could sleep; and about how, for three solid months, he was “Dada” until she learned to say “Unca.”

“This _sucks_ ,” he says finally, because it really, really does. They’ve been in shit situations before – a foxhole in the Congo springs immediately to mind – but this is the first time that Jensen’s actually been dead, even figuratively speaking. “If this is my last eight minutes – I got ripped off.”

Cougar shrugs, “ _Así es la vida_.”

“Right,” Jensen says, sullen now, “okay. How do you say ‘life sucks’ in Spansh?”

That earns him an eye-roll, but no real answer.

“We were heroes, weren’t we? Never killed anyone who didn’t need killing?”

Cougar shrugs; he’s finished field-stripping his rifle, starts putting it back together one careful piece at a time. It’s like meditation for him, as perfect as the breathing exercises he uses to steady his hands and slow his heartbeat. His hands are so fucking steady that Jensen can’t even watch anymore; he feels like he’s tied to the ceiling fan, going around and around...

“Man...Cougar, man...the _kids_.”

It would be better if he could just stop thinking about it, stop talking about it – but Jensen can’t ever stop talking about anything. It’s his massive fucking cross to bear. Cougar puts his rifle down, metal against wood so loud it sounds like a shot going off, making Jensen flinch; and when Jensen looks over, Cougar is taking off his hat.

“Here,” he says, pushing a hand through his black hair, seeming to remember too late that there’s gun oil on his hands, wiping them belatedly on his pants, “ _Ven aqui_.”

And Jensen practically falls out of bed he moves so fast – because _fuck, yes, please_ , he needs this. He must say some of that out loud, because Cougar tells him, almost gently, to be quiet as he pulls his glasses off. Jensen knows he has impulse control problems where his mouth is concerned, so he just shoves Cougar down by his shoulders and yanks his shirt up so he can lick the imbedded taste of Bolivian jungle and burning chopper fuel off his skin – something to do with his tongue instead of using it to form words. 

Cougar’s hands steady him the same way they steady a rifle – like it’s natural and easy, like no one’s going to die now, even if they will; and everything slows down, even Jensen’s frantic heartbeat, so that he’s languid rather than desperate once he gets their pants open and puts his around both their dicks.

“Yeah Cougar – yeah – c’mon...” Jensen works up a chant to match the rhythm of the way he thrusts into his own hand, wishing he could see more clearly the way they rub together – it’s a convincing argument for that laser eye surgery he’s been putting off – but for all Jensen’s as blind a damn bat without his glasses, Cougar’s a marksman; he doesn’t need any direction to know just where to press his fingers and which patch of skin to sink his teeth into so that Jensen is tangling a free hand in his hair and coming until he can’t breathe with how fucking good it is.

Cougar is quiet though the whole thing – especially compared to Jensen’s helpless babble – just takes a hard breath, squeezes the back of Jensen’s neck, and then it’s over. 

“No more ‘eight minutes,’” Cougar tells him, soft and serious in the growing darkness, in those moments when he’s actually silenced Jensen; which is no easy thing to do. “ _No creo en ello_. We are better than this.”

“Right,” Jensen sits up, squints down at Cougar and wipes the sweat from his forehead. “I mean – it’s been worse. Definitely worse. Remember the shipping container...”

Cougar clamps a hand over his mouth, eyes narrowing dangerously, “ _Cállate_.”

Jensen, undeterred, pries Cougar’s hand away from his mouth, “Or what about that time in Tehran when...”

Cougar pinches him so that Jensen breaks off in a yelp, grabs him by one shoulder, slings a leg around him, and flips them both. The bed protests the sudden shift with a long squeal of rusted springs; Jensen drowns them out when his head grazes the wall.

“Jeez Cougar – come on – is that any way to treat the guy who just got you off? We had a good time in Tehran, didn’t we?”

Cougar snorts loudly; he’s got a good handful of Jensen’s jeans as is working them down around his ankles – something Jensen objects to not at all.

“Okay, except for the part where I got shot and –“ Cougar bites the inside of his thigh, and every muscle in Jensen’s body twitches. He almost puts his fist through the wall, “Ah – okay – fine, fine. What about the safe house in Honduras? Do you think you could do that thing again...” he makes a series of motions with his fingers that in no way accurately approximate _the thing_ ; but by the look on Cougar’s face, he gets it.

“One condition,” he starts, and Jensen mimes zipping his lips together, even if he knows he won’t be able to keep them that way.

Truthfully, he doesn’t even try.

-End-


End file.
